The Cotton Spies

by Simon Glyndwr John

CHAPTER 61

  When Robbins and Edrich returned to the hotel after their meeting with Plasov Hutton, feeling better, joined them in the discussion arising from the Commissar’s order to them to leave.

  ‘He actually mentioned the word spy? That’s serious,’ said Hutton.

  ‘I agree but it was the tone of his voice when he said it that shook me,’ replied Robbins. ‘I do not think that we can do other than obey his order.’ Robbins rubbed his chin, ‘if we have invaded Turkestan then why haven’t we been arrested as spies? I am sure if he had a prisoner he would have produced one by now as it has been several days since the alleged action took place.’

  ‘They might have shot him already,’ commented Hutton.

  Edrich looked at Hutton and realised that the man might have said something sensible. ‘Yes, ‘he said slowly, ‘which means that we are in danger.’

  ‘What are you thinking colonel?’

  ‘What I am thinking, Sir Walter is we gather as much information as we can and get it out to India. I think I will try somehow to stay on because if we have invaded Turkestan then having an officer here means that he may be able to relay information to them.’

  Hutton looked at Edrich in astonishment. ‘That will be so dangerous. How could you stay on as we have all been are ordered out? They’ll throw you into prison. Even if you somehow avoided that, how would you get information out to India – look at the trouble you had sending one measly telegram to India.’

  The bed rest was obviously improving Hutton’s thought processes Edrich mused to himself. He nodded, ‘Yes, it will be dangerous. What I might do is suggest to Plasov that I stay here because - where’s the best place to murder someone?’ Neither of the others responded, ‘out on the trail. I could wait here till you reach Kashgar and telegraphed to say you have arrived safe and well. As for transmitting information to India - that bridge I will cross when I get there.’

  ‘The captain is obviously right about the danger. How or why do you think Plasov will accept it?’ Robbins looked as he felt – concerned.

  ‘I think, and hope, the Bolos see America, by being a Republic, as something on whose side they must stay. Because Compton is here and we are working together that might make, even this bunch of cut-throats think twice about shooting me. If there is just me here maybe they will see one person as less of a threat than three. The idea of offering me as a hostage for your safe conduct back to Kashgar may convince Plasov that our intentions are.’ Edrich searched for the right word.

  ‘Believable,’ suggested Hutton.

  The others laughed. ‘I doubt Plasov is that stupid,’ snorted Edrich. ‘Anyway there are enough people here who are anti-Bolshevik who need someone with military experience to deal with - me. I’ll know more this afternoon, when I’ve met my contact, what is required. Compton is not a military man so we must not directly involve him on military matters.’ Hutton opened his mouth to speak but Edrich shook his head and went on, ‘if we have invaded Turkestan and we are fighting these Bolos then anybody who is opposing them ipso de facto is our friend. I can’t let these Bolo opponents down because I’ve already told them Britain will help, in fact my orders from India told me I must support such people. If we do not keep to our word it damages our prestige and I cannot disobey my orders.’

  Edrich rubbed his forefinger and thumb together to indicate money before he said; ‘we have all been on the Northwest frontier so we know how guerrilla warfare works and how to combat it with money. In India we are not the guerrillas, here we will be.’

  ‘What would you do?’Robbins was all ears.

  ‘Our experiences on the Khyber Pass helps us to understand not just what moves a guerrilla makes but what counter-moves work against them. Knowing both move and counter-move the Bolos would be likely to make gives us an advantage.’

  ‘Not quite so mountainous here as in the Khyber Pass which is to our disadvantage and the Sarts are not in the fighting class of the Pathans.’

  ‘That is true Sir Walter but maybe we can change that.’ Edrich looked at his watch, ‘we must be going, Sir Walter. Hutton, will you break the news to our chaps about returning to Kashgar?’

  Edrich filled his haversack with his painting gear and accompanied by Robbins he set off for the rendezvous. Once Edrich had arrived at the designated spot it took him half an hour or so to select his subject and the best angle to paint it. Bedi had brought stools from the hotel for Edrich, Robbins and himself to sit on. The three men sat.

  ‘Are you sure that this is a good idea to meet someone in such an exposed position and then talk to them with that lot watching?’ Robbins said turning round to see where his and Edrich’s police tails were. The six policemen stood yards apart from each other in pairs; each pair was probably about thirty to forty yards from the sitters; Robbins assumed each pair was from the same police-force because they talked to one another.

  ‘It is called “Hiding in plain sight.” Our shadowers are not close enough to eavesdrop if we keep our voices down.’

  As always Edrich made a sketch in pencil before with his pad on his knees. When he started to paint passers-by began to stop and look over his shoulder at what he was doing. Sometimes the people asked questions to which Robbins, who was trying to read a book, replied on Edrich’s behalf and sometimes the passers-by said nothing merely glanced at the paper and then at the scene being painted before moving on. The first two people who stopped to look at Edrich’s work caused a kerfuffle. The two young men had a heated argument with one pair and then another pair of the police trackers observing the British. After that everyone who stopped to look at Edrich’s work was questioned by one or more of the tracking pairs who sometimes argued amongst themselves. So many people began to look at the paintings that the police could not cope with questioning everyone so they began to only question men who seemed of fighting age or were not European.

  It was when the police seemed most inundated that a squat European in his late fifties or early sixties, on crutches and wearing an eye-patch came and stood close to Edrich. ‘I am General Abenkov,’ the European whispered.

  ‘I am Colonel Edrich and that is Sir Walter Robbins,’ Edrich indicated his companion with his head. Robbins did not look up as he quietly turned a book page.

  ‘My companions will keep the police occupied. I think that second window from the right is slightly larger than you have it, colonel. I like oils myself and collect them when I can. Watercolours like you are using,’ Abenkov announced loudly saturating the air with garlic, ‘I’ve never been very keen on them.’

  ‘I like oils but I could not bring them with me they are too awkward. I like painting soldiers myself lots of soldiers. Do you like paintings of soldiers?’ Edrich said looking at his painting then dabbing at it.

  ‘Yes, I love paintings of soldiers perhaps you could paint such a picture.’

  ‘How many soldiers would you want the painting to contain?’

  ‘Impossible to say, but my army would have various Sart tribesmen and some Europeans. It would have some demobbed officers and others who have no military experience. Abenkov raised his voice, ‘that door is too small.’

  Edrich looked at the Russian and snarled. ‘And you are Renoir, are you? How dare you comment on my painting?’ He turned away. ‘I couldn’t paint such a picture unless I know how many soldiers?’

  Abenkov leaned forward studying the painting in detail, shook his head and whispered, ‘that is impossible to say because there are so many spies here that each leader in my army only knows the numbers of his own troops in his own band.’ He stood back and looked at Edrich’s subject. ‘This is now a free country thanks to the Bolsheviks and their partners.’

  ‘Roughly how many?’

  ‘Ten thousand Europeans and roughly the same number of tribesmen. That is a lot more than these Bolos can command.’

  ‘What about the Germans and Austrians in the Bolo ranks?’ Edrich dabbed paint on the picture.

  ‘The Germans I grant you are good
soldiers but there are only a few hundred of them. As for the Austrians, they are poor soldiers so we have nothing to fear from them. As an experienced commander I feel that my experience and background is far superior to anything these scallywags have. That is a lot better using paint to cover up your mistakes.’

  ‘Which front did you fight on,’ murmured Robbins. A question that made Edrich wince as he had forgotten to tell Robbins the man’s lack of recent experience.

  ‘I was a garrison commander at Merv and its district. I had Cossacks and European soldiers under my command,’ Abenkov grunted at Robbins.

  ‘No fighting experience?’ Robbins persisted.

  ‘Of course, I fought tribesmen when I was younger. You can’t have all your best officers away at the front. You need more colour there,’ the general pointed at the painting. ‘I didn’t get my promotions like some in the Imperial Army through favouritism or patronage. I was always promoted on merit.’

  ‘Very pleased to hear it,’ said Edrich mixing blue and yellow paint gradually to get the green he wanted for one of the trees’ leaves. ‘So what if anything can we do?’

  ‘Are the British going to invade? We hear so many rumours as to where they are: along the borders of China: our boundaries with Persia; on the approach roads from Afghanistan.’

  ‘No, we are not going to ever invade Russia.’

  ‘You are going to let these Bolos maintain control?’ Abenkov looked as he sounded amazed and angry at the same time. ‘You imperialists should listen to us when we make constructive criticism of your work.’ He dropped his voice, ‘if Britain was to invade then the whole of Russia would welcome you with open arms as saviours.’

  ‘Possibly, general, but our help will not be by providing troops but in other ways.’

  ‘Well, we do need money. We need it to buy arms and we must pay the troops.’

  ‘How much money do you think you need?’

  ‘What are you doing? Why are you talking to this man for so long?’ One of the police watchers had seen what was going on and had marched over to Edrich’s side.

  ‘This revolutionary gentleman was discussing my painting. He didn’t like one of the windows or the colours. He then asked for alms.’

  The policeman turned to Abenkov and snarled, ‘how much did you ask for?’

  ‘Half a million roubles at least as I need to buy clothes because I cannot abide scruffiness like all these POWs about the place. If you look smart you think smart I have no doubt on that score. I need to buy something heavy for the winter. I thought half a million sounded reasonable.’

  The policeman started to laugh, ‘hey comrades this old man has asked for half a million roubles from a bloke whose painting he doesn’t like.’ The policeman wandered back to join his friends leaving Abenkov still standing by Edrich. ‘Tell him you don’t like something else and ask for more money,’ the policeman shouted to hoots of laughter.

  ‘You mentioned the word “Heavy” - meaning you need artillery?’ The Russian’s grunt Robbins took to be an affirmative, ‘so where would you get that?’ Robbins stimulated by a look from Edrich, which involved the raising of eyebrows and the pursing of lips.

  ‘China, maybe Afghanistan - anywhere which has some to spare.’

  ‘How would you get it here? Do you have access to motor cars, camels or horses?’

  ‘Horses and camels through our Sart tribesmen, but cars we have none. Sarts don’t know much about engines. I still think your colour is wrong there.’ Abenkov pointed at the painting, ‘that is not how it looks.’

  ‘You are talking too much to this man, be off with you,’ a different one of Edrich’s policeman trailers grunted thrusting his face into Abenkov’s.

  ‘Comrade, this is a typical bourgeoisie piece of work by an Imperialist. I was pointing this out to this man – who is hardly an artist to me - the error of his ways.’

  The policeman studied Edrich’s painting and nodded, ‘I see what you mean, Comrade. Don’t be long.’

  ‘You need to use bold colours not follow the wishy washy standards of your ilk,’ Abrakov said speaking and waving his arms.

  ‘What about your Europeans knowing about engines?’ Edrich spoke out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Engines are not the concern of officers - the work is too dirty. How can you be smart and dirty at the same time? The answer is you cannot. No, engines are for the lower classes, officering is for the upper classes. Failure to note this last fact will be the reason these Bolos will ultimately fail.’

  ‘What about your soldiers fighting experience?’

  ‘All those with military experience will now have to fight as rankers. Damn shame, still they know their duty to the motherland. I’m not sure the picture is in proportion. I know how to rectify it,’ Abenkov picked up brush and pretended to paint.

  ‘Do you have a Sart leader? That won’t work. I thought I was the artist here.’ Edrich turned round and waved his hands in the direction of the police groups and then tapped his finger against his forehead. He then roughly sized the paintbrush from Abenkov’s hand.

  ‘I deal with a Kirghiz chieftain called Akbar. Not you would say a very inspiring fellow. I think the man is more concerned with obtaining independence from Russia than with ensuring these Bolos are overthrown. Akbar has no military experience whatsoever. Still beggars cannot be choosers and the Sarts will make good cannon fodder if nothing else. Anyway I have to go. We must meet again. I will instruct Sokolovsky to arrange it when you have some money for us. For an amateur that is a good drawing.’

  ‘It is a painting,’ said Edrich to Abenkov’s retreating back. ‘I don’t need your comments.’

  The two Britons watched Abenkov walk past their shadowers, who observed the general with little apparent curiosity and didn’t notice that he was using his crutches incorrectly.